


Nights Under Stars, Dreaming of Sleep

by MsPriestly



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Character Death Fix, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rating May Change, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2019-09-25 01:01:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17111492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsPriestly/pseuds/MsPriestly
Summary: Charles Smith was a lone wolf, until someone gave him a chance to be part of a pack. It wasn't what he expected, but he wasn't sure if that was a good or a bad thing. (AKA a year in the life of Charles Smith)





	1. Lived a Wicked Life

**Author's Note:**

> Please note the violence warning at the start of this. The descriptions probably won't get too graphic, but better safe than sorry. There'll be warnings at the start of every chapter. Just a note; I'm ignoring the TB. I have tried to write around it, to come up with some cure, and there's nothing I can do to make it okay with me, or with, you know, medical science. Call me a lazy writer, but that's the truth of it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time Charles Smith meets Arthur Morgan, he’s less than impressed with him.

The first time Charles Smith meets Arthur Morgan, he’s less than impressed with him. 

“All due respect, Dutch, but I have to ask; have you lost your goddamn mind?” The voice was a whip crack across camp, and it made everyone in the vicinity wince even as Dutch laughed.

“Mr Smith, I’d like to introduce you to our Mr Morgan. Please forgive his, ah, agitated state. Arthur usually has better manners, I swear,” Dutch chuckled, seemingly unbothered by the bear of a man that had muscled his way into the tent with a snarl and the stink of cigarette smoke. The man - Morgan - seemed to suddenly register that Charles was there and raked his eyes over him, checking for… Something. 

Charles prepared himself the same way he always did when facing off with some Alpha male. Kept his stare blank, his hands in plain sight and his mouth shut. He’d spent enough time with outlaw cowboys to know that half of it was just avoiding a pissing contest. Hell, Bill had tried to shove him when he’d first gotten to camp. Big men liked to make other big men feel small. Charles was well versed in holding his own while blending into the background. 

To his surprise, Morgan didn’t take the opportunity to puff his chest out, “Mr Smith, was it? If you could excuse us for a moment. I need to have a word with Dutch here, and find out why he’s trusting the information of a damned fool.” The smile slid off Dutch’s face quicker than rain on a canvas and he turned his full attention to the other man. Those in the vicinity seemed to understand that this was not a conversation that they should be a part of and mumbled their excuses to leave. Charles elected not to say a word as he ducked out of the tent. 

“Been a while since I’ve seen Arthur that pissed,” Javier said with a low whistle as he fell into step beside Charles. He responded only with a nod and a glance, prompting for more information put not pushing. So far, Arthur Morgan wasn’t quite what he had expected. The way people in camp had spoken about him had set Charles up for expecting a swaggering legend. Some golden haired hero, riding in on a white horse, like in those awful stories people told their children. The sullen man he’d met hadn’t lined up with that idea.

“Been a while? I’ve seen Arthur that pissed over someone bumpin’ his shoulder!” Sean argued, his voice carrying - no doubt - back to the tent. In the week Charles had been there, it had become apparent that Sean didn’t care much for subtlety. Or quiet. 

“Not like that,” Javier said, glancing back at the tent, which was closed from prying eyes now, “It isn’t often he chews Dutch out; even when he disagrees with him.” So that was what Dutch had meant about manners. Hosea marched past them with a nod, intent on heading to Dutch’s sleeping quarters and wearing a jovial expression that didn’t do much to settle the tension that had suddenly crept into camp. 

Charles brushed off Javier’s offer to grab some food and made himself comfortable against a large fir tree in camp, settling down on a soft hide so that he could keep Dutch’s tent within his sights. He couldn’t deny that he was curious about what was about to happen. He had only been with the gang for a little over a week and Morgan, Hosea and Davey had been gone for most of that time, apparently scouting for some job close to Blackwater. In that time, he was pretty sure he hadn’t seen anyone argue back against Dutch, or even disagree with him. There’d been no reason to and from what he could tell, many thought the same. Not that he’d been there long enough to really gauge an opinion. All he knew - all he needed to know - was that Dutch was a good man who had saved his life.

In all honesty, it had been good luck that he’d ran into Dutch and some of the others when he had been in a bind. Some folk had decided that they didn’t like what he was selling, or just didn’t like him (probably the latter; he’d heard enough mumbling about his parentage to be sure of that) and had jumped him on the road to Tall Trees. It had been luck that meant Lenny was passing at the time and heard the shots. It had been luck that the young man hadn’t been shot when he’d rode in to take a look. It had not been luck when Dutch Van Der Linde drew his gun to help a stranger who owed him nothing. That had been a choice, and a seemingly easy one for him. 

“Hell of a ruckus you just caused, young man,” Dutch had called to him after his attackers were dead and he had remained in cover behind a rock, nursing a bullet graze on his leg, “Perhaps you could come out from behind that rock. We can discuss this like gentlemen.” The gang leaders voice had been almost gentle, as though he was genuinely offering Charles a choice in all of this. Truth was, he was out of bullets and he could see that one of the men had Taima’s reigns in his hold, and his bow remained on her saddle. There was no choice for him. He had only hoped that luck would continue to assist him. 

“Okay, I’m coming out,” He had shouted back, testing his weight on his injured leg as he rounded the boulder to get his first good look at Dutch. His first impression was one of confusion; why on earth would a person want to sparkle quite that much? He looked like the bottom of a gold panner’s sieve. But then again, gold meant money, and money meant power. He had assumed then that it was for this reason that men followed him. “They attacked me; I was just defending myself.”

“Well, considering there were 5 of them, and one of you, I should think so! Unless you’re the type who was just aiming to get his brains blown out of course,” Dutch had said, a smile accompanying his words now, in that same tone. The tone that one might use when settling down for lunch with a friend who they hadn’t seen for some time. There was familiarity in it that Charles hadn’t expected, “Mac, please pass the reigns back to Mr…?” 

“... Smith.”

“A pleasure, Mr Smith. Like I was saying Mac, please give Mr Smith his horse back.” Charles hadn’t been able to hide his furrowed brow when Taima’s reigns had been dropped and she’d trotted to him with a snort and stamp of her hooves. She really did not like other people handling her after all. “Mr Smith, are you hungry? We were just getting ready to make camp. Javier here caught some fine looking bass, if you would like to join us?”

That had been that really. Dutch had explained a little more later, (“We shoot fellers as need shooting, save fellers as need saving, and feed ‘em as need feeding”) and Charles was not too proud to admit that he had needed saving that night.

“Feeding though… I’m a pretty good hunter. Never had a problem with feeding myself. Could probably feed a lot more too, if needed,” he’d said quietly. He didn’t like to be indebted and this was a big group. Surely they needed food. Dutch had been more than happy with that plan and in the days that followed he had begun to repay his debt to the Van Der Linde Gang. Or at least he thought he had. He’d stuck to the outskirts of the group, not expecting a welcome beyond the occasional nod in his direction. That was usually how things worked when he rode with a bunch of outlaws. 

He hadn’t expected the camp girls to bring him coffee when he returned from hunting, for Uncle to attempt to strike up pithy conversations about his history, or for Javier to drag him to the fire on his second night for a rousing chorus of a song he’d never heard of, or for Mary Beth to shyly request to borrow a book that he’d picked up outside of Tumbleweed and hadn’t had a chance to read. 

It was odd, to say the least. He had ridden with gangs before, usually as an extra gun for a big job or to do what he had thought he was doing here; to hunt and repay them for some favor. He’d been there a few days and well, he was already being treated like one of them. There was clearly a big job in the works but it was only in the planning stages, definitely not at the point where they needed to think about bringing men in. 

He’d approached Dutch about it in the end, to clarify things. There had been a mild look of horror on his face when Charles had asked him about how long he was expecting this arrangement to continue. “My dear boy, you’re welcome as long as you like. If you’re not happy here, then you’re welcome to leave. You haven’t borrowed money, you’ve pulled your own weight, and even a little extra while you’ve been here. We don’t expect anything from you,” Dutch had assured him and Charles had believed him. Dutch had that ability, to make you believe whatever he said. 

“Son,” he carried on, closing the book he had been reading and leaning forwards so that his voice didn’t carry, “We didn’t help you on that road so that you would be trapped here.”

“So why did you help? Why did you think I was someone who needed saving and they were the men that needed shooting?”

A pause. “The odds, for one. I’ve done some terrible things in my life, but 5 men against one? That’s just cowardly, and I have no patience or time for cowards. But you want to know why I asked you to join us if it wasn’t to pay us back for saving you,.” The silence was enough of an answer, apparently, “I saw you and I thought, there’s a man who can survive in this world without any help. A lone wolf that has a chance. That’s a very rare thing, but it doesn’t make it right. No-one should have to walk through the world alone.”

The honesty had floored Charles better than any right hook or bullet he’d ever faced. He searched Dutch’s face for any sign of a lie; he wasn’t the best poker player, but he knew every man had a tell. But there was nothing there to find.

“I’d like to stay.”

“Then welcome to the family, Mr Smith.”

Charles was sharpening his axe by the time the canvas lifted on Dutch’s tent and he heard Morgan’s quiet timbre before he saw him. The low voice was softer now, and his words were accompanied by a booming laugh. Dutch. The whole camp seemed to breathe easier after that. Except for Bell, who looked disappointed that the whole thing hadn’t ended in a fight. Bastard. He glanced up to see Dutch clap a hand against Morgan’s shoulder and whisper something that made them both smile fondly before they turned away from each other. 

No real drama then. Morgan was clearly respected enough that his opinions mattered to Dutch, and they could talk it out without it ending in a brawl. Or worse, whispers of mutiny. It was a relief to know that he wasn't about to watch a power struggle. Those things never ended well. Charles had thought that would be the end of it, hadn’t expected Morgan to seek him out, loping over with an expression that was half resigned, half sheepish.

“Sorry about that back there. I’d say I usually make a better first impression, but it’d be a damn lie,” he admitted. His hat had been removed, along with the heavy duster coat he had been wearing, and for moment Charles could appreciate where the legend had come from. Even without the bulk and weaponry, Morgan cut an intimidating figure. “Arthur Morgan,” he added, holding out a hand. 

“Charles Smith,” he responded, reaching out and grasping his hand in a firm shake. As before, Morgan didn’t take the opportunity to try and crush his fingers like a lot of men usually did. The shake was firm, but not a way to try and prove strength. The man really wasn’t what he had expected. He’d expected another loud mouth with more voice than brains, if he was being honest. A man who was high on the adoration of the camp and lorded it about. In reality, Morgan was almost subdued. Quiet. 

The silence carried on for a beat, and he wondered what else there was to say. Charles wasn’t known for keeping conversations going and it seemed Morgan wasn’t either.

“Don’t let me keep you, just wanted to introduce myself properly,” he continued, nodding his head before turning and heading back to the weapons cache and taking a seat on the cot in the lean-to next to it. The next time Charles glanced up at him there was a journal in Morgan’s lap and his hand was moving across the page rapidly. They were both at the edges of the camp, removed from the noise and laughter. 

No. Arthur Morgan wasn’t at all what he had expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been about two years since I've written anything that wasn't a report at work? Be gentle?


	2. Look Up to the Skies Like There's a Sign I Didn't See

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Falling into step with the Van Der Linde gang was easier than Charles ever thought it could be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Horse death in this one, nothing too graphic, but be aware.

Falling into step with the Van Der Linde gang was easier than Charles ever thought it could be. There were teething problems, most of them including the other newcomer Micah Bell, who seemed intent on getting under his skin. But mostly, he had found himself being trusted and welcomed with open arms. Even Bill handed him a bottle of whiskey three months into his stay, when they were both heading back to camp from the night watch, claiming that it might put a smile on his miserable face. He assumed that was as close to nice as the other man got. 

For the most part Charles stuck to hunting and taking care of the horses, sometimes tagging along when there was a smaller job. A stagecoach or a weak but well stocked house were easy enough jobs for him. The take wasn’t great, but he understood that he was being tested and he was fine with that. No point giving a man more money if he was going to split at the first sign of trouble. 

The horses though… They were what he was really good at. He had a respect for animals that he rarely had for people. Animals were simple, they didn’t have ulterior motives. Not to mention you could tell a lot about people from how they treated their horses. Lenny was excitable and his horse knew it. Micah was cruel and his horse knew it. Dutch was in charge and his horse knew it. 

Arthur Morgan was good and his horse knew it. 

Boadecia was a beast of a mare, and seemingly made of fire. The chestnut Missouri Fox Trotter had one hell of a temper and wasn’t afraid to show it, but she could be bribed with sugar cubes and trusted implicitly once she knew you weren’t about to turn on her. There was a dip in her back from being broken too early and a patch of hair that was missing on her belly, and she was littered with scars that were clearly from spurs and whips. For a while after seeing her it had made him a little colder towards Morgan. Right until he saw him interact with her 

Charles had been trying to get on her good side for weeks, sure that her snorting and stamping must come from the same scared place as Micah’s mounts fury, but he’d had no luck. Which was why he was floored to arrive early one morning to the grazing area to find the old girl nickering happily as her ears were scratched by the gruff outlaw. Morgan didn’t notice Charles approach so he continued to watch curiously as he slipped a sugar cube from his pocket and fed her it, chuckling as she licked at his palm, “That’s my girl,’” he whispered, patting her neck gently. Boadecia’s mane flicked around like little flames and Arthur finally realized he was being watched.

Far from being embarrassed, he went back to scratching her ears gently before rubbing his knuckles against her soft nose, earning a snort from her before she went back to grazing. “Heard she was giving you a little bit of lip,” he said by way of greeting, prompting Charles to shake his head. 

“Not too bad, she’s a little skittish though,” Charles said, testing the waters. He hadn’t seen Arthur ride into camp the night he had returned so he had never seen her react to him. He’d just met the tenacious horse the next morning and quickly learned that touching her or her saddle was a bad move. “Looks like she’s been through the mill,” he said, trying to keep anything accusatory out of his tone. Having seen them together now, he couldn’t imagine that the chestnut filly would have allowed this if he treated her poorly when he rode her. 

“Don’t know the half of it,” Arthur mumbled, voice so low that Charles had to fight to hear it over the sounds of the horses around them. A broad hand smoothed over the red coat once more, anger in his eyes for a moment before it dampened. Boadecia whinnied, sensing the change in the air and turned her head as though shielding her rider. A low chuckle left Arthur as he slipped her an apple, “Here,” he said suddenly, catching Charles off guard. Something was thrown to him and he frowned at the sugar cube he caught, “She’s got a sweet tooth. Won’t give you no trouble so long as you give her one of them.”

Before another word could be said, Arthur was swinging up into the saddle with practised ease and the two were gone with a whip of Boadecia’s flame like tail. 

Charles heard the story later of course, not from Arthur, but from Hosea who was always happy to talk about his favorite son without prompting. She’d been a workhorse, and a poorly treated one at that. When her owner had managed to get the jump on a very drunk Arthur on the trail outside his ranch, she’d kicked the bastard in the back and took off. Arthur had apparently followed her for a day and spent the next two getting her to trust him.

For reasons that he really didn’t want to look at any closer, the thought of a hungover, stubborn Arthur Morgan cooing at a wild horse brought a small smile to Charles’ face. He hid it under his hat as Hosea regaled those around the fire with the tale. 

***

Blackwater was a nightmare and a disaster and Charles left it knowing that he would never forget the scream of horses when the big gun had took them out, or the look on Arthur’s face when Boadecia fell in front of him with a final cry. It was that damn look that stopped him from realizing that grabbing the barrel of a rifle that had fired ten seconds earlier was probably the dumbest thing he’d ever done in his life. 

And he had done a lot of dumb things. 

The shout of pain at least pulled Arthur out of his grief, and there was no faltering after that. The gun that burned him ended up putting down the man who took aim at Boadecia and they stole his horse, only able to spare a glance for Arthur’s girl. There’s no time to grieve and even less time to say anything to Arthur as they rode for the hills and for the rest of the gang, working to leave the Pinkertons and what felt like the entire law of West Elizabeth behind them in a snowstorm. 

The stolen horse found its end halfway up the mountain, but by that time they’d been able to catch up to the wagons and Arthur had climbed on board there, shooting a look at Hosea who opened his mouth to ask about his fiery steed. When Dutch had doubled back to ask Arthur to scout ahead and looked around for the red horse, Charles had climbed off Taima and handed over her reigns without a second thought. He knew he could trust Arthur to take care of her and she knew it too, going without any fuss for once in her life. Charles watched Taima carry Arthur away from them and he wasn’t worried; Taima was tough and Arthur would take care of her for him.

***

Charles found out pretty early that he quite liked John Marston, even if the feeling in camp was that he probably shouldn’t. It didn’t take long for him to figure out the contention around little Jack and the strain between Abigail and him, and honestly it hadn’t made Charles exactly forthcoming with his respect. But after a few nights on watch with the younger man, he’d figured out one thing; the boy was a damn fool and trying to figure out how not to be one. That counted in his books, and besides, it wasn’t his situation to get involved in. 

Not that any of it mattered now. Not with John in the state he was in. The edges of the bites had begun to crust with infection, seeping yellow into the bandages as the young man trembled and groaned his way through the fever. Charles wasn’t a healing man; mostly he was just there to make sure that John didn’t choke on his own tongue. Though it might have been kinder if he did. Burning up and out with a fever was a terrible way to go. 

“Easy,” he murmured, patting John’s arm as he flailed a little in the cot, a low whimper pushing past his lips as he did so. God, he really was a kid. Charles winced in sympathy for him, waiting for this newest round of tremors to pass before he slumped back in his chair. He felt a little useless here. The trip out hunting with Arthur had been a good reprieve, reminded him a little of some purpose, but there was nothing a guy with a bum hand could do to help with much else. Hell, he couldn’t even skin a damn dear.

Snow whirled as the door opened and Abigail walked in looking a little more rested than she had when she had left earlier. Her expression crumpled for a second as her eyes landed on John, disappointment clear. It was as if a small part of her had expected that he would be better when she returned. It wasn’t going to be that easy. She schooled her expression into something stonier and thanked him politely as she pulled her walls back up and set to caring for her husband.

Sometimes Charles thought that Abigail Roberts might be one of the toughest people he’d ever met. 

Getting out of the main cabin was a small relief. The wind had stopped and the thaw was finally starting to set in, and it brought up the general morale of the group. He could even hear the sounds of little Jack playing with somebody, his laughter echoing a little through the old mining village. Rounding the corner he found the boy in question, bundled up against the cold and making snow angels with Uncle.

“Both of em’ are gonna catch their deaths out here,” a voice said to his left, and Charles gravitated to it without pause, taking the cigarette that Arthur offered him. He didn’t say what they were both thinking; at least someone was finding the positive in this. It wouldn’t hurt to let the boy have some fun. After all, his father could drop dead at any moment. “How’s that pain in the ass doin’?” Arthur asked, taking back the smoke. 

“No better, no worse,” Charles said, exhaling and watching the air in front of him go grey and then white. Arthur grunted and they lapsed into silence, passing the cigarette between them until it burned to nothingness. Even when there was no call for them to stand so close, neither man made an effort to move. “Reckon that thaw’s ever gonna come?”

“It better. If I never have to see snow again, it’ll be too soon,” Arthur murmured, as he rubbed his gloved hands together to try and eke some warmth into them. Charles wished that he could do the same. “How’s that hand holdin’ up?” he asked, as if following Charles’ train of thought as he gestured at the bandaged appendage. 

“Could’ve been worse. Feels a lot better now,” Charles admitted as he flexed his fingers and only felt the slight ache and sting. It’d be fine before they hit the train. It would have to be; they needed all the firepower they had, especially with one of their best shots laid up. Arthur grunted once more and chewed on the inside of his lip.

“Never thanked you for that,” at Charles’ questioning glance, he gestured at his hand. “I was… I blanked for a minute there. You saved my ass,” he said quietly. “Thank you.”

“Anyone would have reacted the same in your shoes,” Charles assured him. Words had never really been his strong point, but he shifted and let his arm press against Arthur’s. “Besides. You’d have done the same for me.” When the outlaw offered a small, tired smile he returned it and tried not to think about how it was the first time he had felt warm since they’d fled Blackwater.


	3. I Still Question Where I've Been

Horseshoe Overlook and Valentine were a welcome break from the ice and snow of the mountains. They had money in their pockets and food in their bellies, and the chill was finally starting to ease from their weary bones. Charles wasn’t so naive as to believe that their woes were over, but he allowed himself a blossoming hope that maybe the worst was behind them. It was a cliche his father had used. It hadn’t been true at any other time, but he wished that it would be so now.

The ride to Horseshoe Overlook had been illuminating to say the least; it had been interesting to hear Hosea’s views on their situation. It felt like a lot of the time the man talked in riddles, and it had been a rare sight to see him open in worry and being completely honest with himself and the situation. He was sure if they had been alone, he wouldn’t have voiced such thoughts, but Arthur’s presence seemed to bring out the genuine side of the old conman.

Beyond the beauty of Horseshoe Overlook, a short ride into town proved that Valentine wasn’t as overwhelming. Except maybe to his sense of smell. The place really did smell like shit, after all, but the people were stupid and the bar had the sort of whiskey that felt like it was stripping his insides.

The first time that Charles had walked into the Saloon at Valentine he had known that it was going to end in fucking or fighting, and he had really been hoping for the first. It hadn’t taken long for them to distract a couple of the working girls from the locals, despite the comments that he and Javier got from the men for just heading to the bar. The words rolled off their backs as the corwards stayed in their seats.

Javier laid it on thick with both of the women and he couldn’t help but laugh and join in, his hand finding a place on one of the girls waist and stroking. When she leaned into it with a wicked smirk, he held it there, leaning in to whisper in her ear while Javier flirted loudly. Charles wasn’t so far gone on a certain outlaw that he couldn’t enjoy the feeling of the darker haired girl who pressed against him, soft curves and bright smile making him as loose limbed and relaxed as any whisky could. 

As if summoned by his thoughts, Arthur had arrived soon after and Charles couldn’t deny that the fire in his belly blazed a little hotter when Arthur’s eyes lingered on him. Course it had all gone to hell from there, and Charles was left sore, unsatisfied and covered in blood.

Charles was still aching when he climbed onto Taima’s back and followed after Javier and Trelawney, splitting off as quickly as he could and smirking as Javier called out to him, begging him not to leave him alone with Trelawney. The man could talk more than anyone else than he had ever met. Including McGuire. 

***

The morning after Sean’s party was slow and peaceful, only punctuated by quiet voices and the occasional retching from a certain few. Even Dutch winced, a little tender and a lot quieter than he usually was when Charles passed him. “Hell of a night,” he said, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand before donning a hat, “Thanks for keeping watch last night, Mr Smith. What would this camp do without you, huh?” 

“Just keepin’ busy,” Charles said, offering a nod despite the small smile that twitched at the corners of his mouth. He didn’t require praise or thanks from Dutch, but it was a pleasant surprise to find his efforts were appreciated. He grabbed some jerky from Pearson’s cart and took a seat at the fire as he contemplated what he had seen on the plains when he and Javier had been riding to Blackwater. Even if the camp would be slow to move, they’d be ravenous and Charles was highly aware of the couple of rabbits and the few pieces of venison that they had by way of meat.

Bison would feed the camp for a good while. They always managed to provide. 

“You disappeared last night.” Charles glanced at the cup of coffee that was being held out to him, grasping it without real conscious thought. His fingers brushed against Arthur’s as he moved, letting out a low hum of acknowledgement as the other man sat down next to him. Arthur didn’t look his best. There was less of a shadow and more of a pelt covering his lower jaw and his hair was in disarray. At least he didn’t smell like vomit, unlike the rest of the camp. 

“Someone had to keep watch,” he reminded him, blowing gently on the hot brew and taking a sip. The coffee was a little burned from spending so long next to the fire, but he drank the bitter liquid eagerly. Just because he hadn’t been drinking with the rest didn’t mean that he’d had a wink of sleep.The gang were loud. But they hadn’t had reason to celebrate for a long while and he wasn’t complaining. They’d needed a win, even if that win was in the form of a horny, loud Irishman. 

“Seems to always be you picking up the slack,” Arthur groused, seemingly unaware that Charles wasn’t the only one who picked up the slack around here. Despite the deep, dark circles under his eyes, Charles knew that Arthur had already gotten the horses fed and dragged at least a few sacks to Pearson’s cart. The other man never seemed to pick up on the fact that he was usually the one keeping this camp going some days. 

“Someone’s gotta do it,” Charles said quietly, setting down his mug and going back to the jerky he’d been chewing on before Arthur had come over. He offered a piece silently, snorting a little with laughter when Arthur paled and shook his head, clearly regretting the action immediately as he squeezed his eyes shut. A low curse left the cowboy as he clutched at his head and damned the world for existing. It didn’t do much to dampen the grin that was spreading over Charles’ face, “Feelin’ a little tender this morning?”

“Jokes… He has jokes now. Who knew?” Arthur growled, but all viciousness was lost in the low chuckle that followed. The two of them lapsed into silence around the embers of the main fire, taking the time to enjoy the quiet before the rest of camp woke up and started about their business. After several gulps of coffee Arthur tentatively tore off some jerky and ate it slowly, his body leaning slightly into Charles’ as he fought to keep it down. 

Charles found he didn’t mind much.

***

The poachers made him think. Oh, they make him seethe, and rage and ride with his hands holding the reigns so tight that he forgets that his fingers can do anything but make a fist... but mostly, they make him think. 

When Charles left his father they had been living in the middle of nowhere in a cabin that they’d found abandoned one day. Bullet holes riddled the walls and they’d had to drag the skeletons out of the hut to bury them in the woods, the ones that hadn’t turned to dust in their hands anyway. He’d managed a year at the property, living like a ghost in the corners of his father's peripherals as he drank himself deeper and deeper into a stupor. 

There was no violence in their house. Michael never raised a hand to him, but he also wouldn’t look at him for too long. It was as if he feared that seeing Charles in more detail than from the corners of his eyes would remind him that he still had a job to do, even if his mother was no longer there. The apathy was almost unbearable for a child. Suddenly Charles had gone from having a mother and father who loved and protected him to looking over a stranger with his father's face.

That had been the hardest part; not understanding where his father had gone and why the man that was left seemed to have lost all interest in his son. Charles remembered some stories that he had heard over the years, about spirits taking over people's bodies and making them do terrible things. Had he been younger he might have believed it, allowed himself to pretend that this wasn’t really his father, this was some ghost who found refuge in his skin. But Charles had never been naive, and he knew that what it truly was was a man who had given up.

In moments when Charles is being perfectly honest with himself, he wonders if a better son might have stayed behind, but at thirteen he had been angry and desperate for life outside of the four walls his father lived in. He was sure that Michael hadn’t even noticed him leaving, and he often wondered if he’d ever realized. Chances were that he had just enjoyed the silence and withered away there.

When he had left it had been with ideas of finding his mother, of rescuing her from the clutches of the soldiers and reuniting their family, but it quickly fell to hell. Charles learned the difficult way that the world was unkind to a boy, and even more unkind to a boy in his skin. His main priority shifted into how he would survive the next day, or the next night, or get to his next meal, or avoid the next town… He had left his home with the hope of living and found himself only running, knowing nothing but violence and fear as he drifted from one place to the next without purpose, living in the wilderness more often than not and happier for it. His mother had been a believer in animals and nature providing for them, so he had fallen back onto that. 

He avoided people, because people had the capacity for apathy, for hate and for greed and there was nothing so dangerous and nothing so cruel. He had never forgotten that, but it had been so long since he had seen it first hand. 

Charles had managed to stop shaking by the time Arthur returned to camp but he could still feel rage pulsing at the tips of his fingers and making his gut clench. He didn’t look up as Arthur hovered at the edge of his vision. Charles had deliberately moved away from camp, searching out some peace and quiet, but he found that he wasn’t frustrated when Arthur took a seat on the rock next to him. The man had choked someone to death on his word, without even blinking an eye. The least that Charles could do was listen to what he had to say. 

He should have known that Arthur wouldn’t need words to get his point across though. Like he had that day up at Colter, he simply sat close to Charles on the rock and let his arm press against his, the heat from his body warming him through. Charles let out a low, shuddering breath and jerked his head towards the horses, glad when Arthur followed him without the need for questions. 

They rode until they reached Moonstone Pond. The only things awake were the wolves higher in the hills, howling in the distance, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. They could handle some wolves; they were more beast than men today anyway. It seemed fitting. The silence spread on even as Arthur set about getting a fire going, waving Charles off when he made a move to assist him. He sank back into the log appreciatively; he was bone tired and not too proud to admit it. 

“I don’t have many memories of my mother,” he said when they were both sat on the same bedroll, their backs against a strange rock that afforded them a decent amount of privacy. If Arthur was surprised or confused about the sudden conversation, he didn’t let on. He simply looked up from sharpening his knife. “I was too young really, before she was taken. But I remember that she loved animals and she hated violence. I always figured there was no way for me to escape the violence completely, but I could… I don’t know; honor her by being good to those that had provided for us. Then at least she’d be proud of something I’d done.”

Those hunters had spat in the face of everything he had ever held dear, and they had been doing so with the full intent of continuing the cycle of violence that had taken his mother away from him. Charles didn’t care that they were just the messenger; there were no innocents when it came to this sort of thing. They were aware of what they were doing and hadn’t cared about the consequences until there’d been guns involved. The thought of their arrogance made Charles’ fists clench again. Hate. It was dangerous. And he didn't know how to make that stop, how to break the cycle. 

“I didn’t know her. I ain’t gonna give you any empty bullshit about how she’d definitely be proud of ya, cos I know it don’t help any,” Arthur said after a moment, and Charles watched his hesitation before a rough palm lay over his fist, gently un-curling his fingers, as though he was reminding Charles that he was more than his anger. “All’s I know is that today, you probably saved a whole lot more people; they were try’na force hurt on innocent people. I can’t imagine anyone not bein’ proud of that.” Charles watched, almost detached, as his fingers flexed and re-learned their motions. 

“Thank you,” Charles hummed, the sound low as he leaned his body into Arthur’s warmth, much like the other man had at the camp a few days earlier. It was probably something that they should talk about. They had to talk about what the hell was happening between them because this wasn’t brotherhood, or friendship, or anything of the like. Charles wondered if Arthur felt the frisson between them, wanted to question it, but talking about it would have meant shattering the peace that had worked its way into their camp.

***

When Charles woke the next morning, there was a crick in his neck from sleeping at an awkward angle and he felt like if he lay on the cold ground for much longer then his back might never forgive him for it. Despite all of that, he couldn’t help but smile as a heavy hand worked it’s way over his shoulder, squeezing gently. 

“You good?” Arthur rasped. His voice still heavy and thick with sleep, but Charles knew that if he looked then his eyes would be as alert as ever. He reached his own hand up and found Arthur’s, doing what he hadn’t been able to do the night before. Their fingers slotted together and Charles squeezed back, trying to convey his thanks in that simple motion. 

“I’m good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could cry with the amazing responses I've had to this, I really could (and might have done, but let's not admit that now)
> 
> I hope this chapter made sense? I've been fighting being sick since Christmas and my brain is done looking it tbh, so sorry if it's ridiculous!


	4. Never Change My Ways

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And what is so important that it’s made you so charitable to our Debtors, hmm?”

“It is a job, Arthur, not something that we can turn our noses up at right now!”

 

“Oh so when he gives away money it’s fine, but he can’t do his own goddamn dirty work and get it back?!”

 

“You know full well that Strauss couldn’t scare a damn duckling, let alone a full grown man - no offense meant, Herr Strauss.”

 

“None taken, Mr Van Der Linde.”

 

“Ain’t even 40 bucks the man owes; givin’ him a couple days grace ain’t gonna change a damn thing-”

 

“And what is so important that it’s made you so charitable to our Debtors, hmm?”

 

“Sorry to interrupt,” Charles said, keeping his expression neutral as three sets of furious eyes turned on him. He made a point to not even look at Strauss; the watery eyed toad made him ill at the best of times. “Arthur offered to come and help me on a hunt out in Cumberland Forest. I’m good shooting a gun again, but my hand’s been giving me some grief using the bow,” he said. Charles tried to ignore the guilt that welled up in him when Dutch’s face turned from anger to concern.

 

“You should have Miss Grimshaw take a look at that, son, it can’t be good if it’s still acting up,” the gang leader said. From his peripheral Charles could see Strauss deflating like a bullfrog, seemingly already aware that he had lost this battle. Arthur turned his face away, hiding under the brim of his hat, but the two of them knew he was fighting a smile.

 

“She did, it’s just scar tissue. Burns heal a little slower,” he assured him, accepting the hearty clap on the shoulder he received. Dutch turned his attention back to Arthur - who had managed to school his expression into something akin to pissy despite his amusement - and gave a long suffering sigh.

 

“Next time, just make life a little easier and tell me what’s going on Arthur. I can’t have eyes in every single place,” he said, shaking his head, “Herr Strauss, I am sorry, but food comes first. Arthur, as much as it pains me to say it, is right; we can afford to give Mr Downes a couple of days grace if it means there’s food in our bellies.” The two walked away and Charles led Arthur back to his lean to, both of them waiting until they were out of earshot to chuckle.

 

“So your hand’s playin’ up, huh?” Arthur said tipping his hat back so that Charles was treated to a rare, uninhibited view of the outlaws face. His eyes were bright with humor and his smile was wide enough that Charles couldn’t help but return it, aware that anyone watching would have thought them drunk. He knew what sort of reputation they had in camp, and it wasn’t as a pair of jokers.

 

“Yeah, aching like a son of a bitch,” he said, flexing his fingers to keep up the facade even as Arthur huffed out a laugh and set to getting his things ready, “I’ll go ready the horses. You grab what we need.” Arthur’s salute was enough of a response, and Charles found the smile on his face lingering as he saddled up Taima and Gray and led them to the pathway to wait for the other man.

 

“You keep savin’ my ass; it’s becomin’ a habit,” Arthur drawled when they were a little ways from camp and heading up towards the forest. Gray and Taima were happy to stay in step with one another; it was as if each were competing for how calm they could be. Charles tilted his head and glanced up and over at Arthur, raising a brow at him in question, “First in Blackwater, now savin’ me from a life of boredom and debt collection.”

 

“What would I do if you weren't around? Hunt with Uncle? C’mon. It’s me I’m saving from a life boredom,” Charles quipped, smiling when he heard Arthur’s laugh. Try as he might, he couldn’t help but notice how laughter came easier to the other man when they were alone. Hell, it came easier to him to. Along with words, and the ability to let loose a little. “Besides, we both know it’s not boredom that makes you hate doing those jobs for Strauss.”

 

“You got that right,” Arthur sighed after a moment, the words almost lost to the light breeze that had picked up around them. He didn’t need to say more than that, not really. Arthur always came back from those jobs grouchy and ready to snarl at anyone who approached him, even Charles, though he usually made a concerted effort to avoid him. It meant that sometimes Charles didn’t see him for days after, not until he’d calmed down and pushed whatever poison he had to swallow to do those jobs outta his body.

 

Their ride continued in relative silence, save for a brief discussion as to what they would be hunting. It was the best place for Elk, after all, and Elk would be the meat that Pearson could stretch the furthest in a stew, not that anyone would thank them for that. He had plans to bag something a little more tender if he could, but Elk was their best cover. He had been thinking on his feet after all.

 

By the time they got to the forest it was fast growing dark around them and they were forced to make camp, their backs to a cliff face once again. It was an old routine at that point, one they had down with the familiarity of people who had been riding together for years, rather than months. Despite what people might have thought, Charles wasn’t quick to not trust people; he preferred to trust that people were good until he was given a reason not to, rather than assume someone was bad until given a reason not to.

 

When he had explained the same to Arthur, he’d received a small laugh from the other man, and an accusation that he was too old to be that naive. It was probably true, but Charles had seen how cruel the world could be and he didn’t believe that it was a bad thing to hope that it was kinder than he had seen.

 

“So, Downes?” Charles prompted once they were settled, Taima and Gray grazing peacefully nearby. Arthur gave a dismissive noise and shook his head, shifting on his roll as he set down his canteen. “Name rings a bell, but not sure where from. Have we met him before?” he wondered, gently probing for more information and not letting it drop.  

 

“Sorta. Back in Valentine, he pulled me off’a that Tommy guy outside the saloon,” Arthur explained and an image clicked in Charles’ head; a scrawny, sickly looking fellow with a hat far too large for his head. He’d seen him a couple of times, hell he’d even put money in the charity box that the other man was often rattling at passers by. A scowl spread over his face at the thought of how quickly Strauss would have seen a sucker in a man like that, “Man knew what he was getting into I suppose. Seemed like a goddamn know-it-all, anyhow.”

 

“Maybe, but that doesn’t mean you have to be the one to do Strauss’ dirty work. If he wants to lend money then he should be the one getting it back.” He was aware that he was just repeating Arthur’s earlier argument, but he couldn’t help but agree.

 

“You and me both, but you’ve seen Strauss. It’s like Dutch said, even Downes wouldn’t be scared of a weasel like that.”

 

“Little offensive to weasels, don’t you think?”

 

“I’d say skunk, but they’re a little too meaty.”

 

“Fair point.”

 

The two of them were grinning like the fools that they were, unashamedly fond. In the moonlight and too far from camp to be worried about anyone else seeing them, it was easy to be affectionate like this. Charles didn’t hesitate to move closer to Arthur and lean into his space, his hand curling over his knee. Arthur’s hand lay over his almost immediately, his fingers a little clumsy as he dragged them over the back of his hand.

 

“We gonna talk about this at some point?” Arthur wondered aloud, however he didn’t seem to be in any kind of rush to do so. There was a sense of contentment in the air and neither of them were in a rush to define this thing between them, not when there was so little to define, beyond feeling and comfort. Things fell apart so easily in their line of work and they had done very little but break things for so long. Comfort was a precious thing, something neither of them were ready to take for granted.

 

“Maybe. For now, I just wanna enjoy it,” he admitted, hoping that Arthur didn’t see it as Charles brushing him off. It was seemingly enough for Arthur, who nodded and leaned back against the rockface, lighting up two cigarettes as he did and handing one to Charles. As he took a drag, he watched Arthur stare off, eyes going distant.

 

“We used to help people you know. Beyond pickin’ up strays across the country I mean,” Arthur murmured after a while, voice slow, like he was struggling to get out what he was trying to say. Charles frowned and chose not to interrupt, curious as to where Arthur was going with this, “When I was young, we used to rob what we needed. Anythin’ left over and we’d give it away. Killin’ wasn’t a part of it all that much, unless people started shootin’ us first. Certainly weren’t givin’ people false hope. Money lendin’,” he sneered, voice gaining more and more bitterness, “If that’s legal work, I’ll stick to robbin’ banks.” He waved his hand a moment later, the bitterness clearing from his face, “Ignore me. Just… Guess it ain’t my place to pick and choose what jobs we take. We need the money now.”

 

“Doesn’t mean you have to like it,” Charles said with a sigh, not missing the way Arthur’s grip briefly tightened on his leg. Charles took the signal to drop it this time, but he didn’t like it. Didn’t like how easily Arthur let himself be branded as some attack dog, good for only the dirtiest of jobs. The conversation flowed easily between them then, with no more mention of debtors or the past or the rocky road they were all on, as they mapped out their hunt for the next day until they agreed it was time to sleep.

 

Their ride back into camp three days later should have been victorious. They’d managed to catch a fair few rabbits and there was a large elk strapped to Grays back, though the huge Hungarian Half Bred barely seemed to notice it. What they were actually met with was a grimace from John who was on guard, and a fair warning that Dutch wasn’t pleased. Charles set to un-strapping their kills while Arthur made his way to Dutch’s tent with the air of a school child about to be reprimanded. A quick scan of the camp and Charles found Strauss at his desk, looking sour as he glared down at his ledger.

 

Pearson was thrilled with the bounty, but Charles barely grunted at him as he heard the conversation filtering out from the tent. Hissed snippets about losing money, and Arthur getting his priorities sorted drifted back to him, but for once Dutch seemed to be making an effort of keeping his voice down. When Arthur stormed out of the tent, he didn’t spare a glance at anyone around him, including Charles, only sparing an apology to Gray as he mounted his horse and left camp again. It would have been easy to miss him coming back at all.

 

Karen let out a low whistle as he joined her at the stew pot, “Reckon your hunting trip should’a been put on hold a couple of days. Strauss has been whinin’ in Dutch’s ear all week and Downes, well...” she dragged her finger over her throat and made a gagging noise, “kicked the bucket the night you left. Dunno what’s worse; beatin’ money outta a dyin’ man or squeezin’ it outta his widow. Suppose Arthur’ll be able to let us know,” she said with a scoff, downing the rest of her coffee and swaying on her feet for a moment. He smelled the whiskey and reached out his burned hand to help steady her, leading her back to her tent to sleep it off.

 

Charles cursed quietly, feeling eyes on his back and he turned, expecting to see Strauss’ watery, smug smirk. To his surprise, he was met with a pair of dark eyes, far more calculating than he’d seen them before. It was a split second before Dutch’s expression smoothed out and he moved closer to clap a hand on Charles’ shoulder, “Mr Smith, a fine hunt was had, I see!” he said jovially, though the way his fingers gripped was fit to bruise, “From the looks of it, it’ll be a while before you need to head out again. Hopefully by then, that hand’ll be healed up.”

 

“Hopefully,” Charles said, a little wary as Dutch stared at him with no warmth, and a shark like grin on his face. Pale fingers gripped tighter, gold rings glinting in the firelight before he was released and Dutch’s usual smile was back in place.

 

“Good to hear! We all gotta do our bit and not distract others from theirs.” Even if Dutch hadn’t walked away Charles wouldn’t have had a retort. For some reason, Charles felt cold settle in his stomach along with the realization that in helping Arthur, in making up a stupid, childish lie, he might have lost trust with a very dangerous man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo... This is how I deal with TB? Poof, didn't happen! Not that there won't be different consequences. 
> 
> Not sure if anyone is still actually reading this, but hopefully some enjoyed!


	5. At the Gallows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles didn’t know if it was paranoia that made him feel as though Dutch’s eyes were on him at every turn, but it meant that he was wary about approaching Arthur for anything more than their usual chat over coffee. Not that it mattered; Arthur was rarely present for that most days and the days that he was, he made an active attempt to avoid Charles past acknowledging his presence with a nod.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING:  
> Mentions of hanging, blood, descriptions of a knife attack.

As it turned out, assisting Arthur in avoiding his debtor hadn’t helped in the slightest when it came to stopping the other man from avoiding him. In reality, it had made things a whole lot worse. With the cold, unfamiliar feeling of disappointment in him from those around him, Arthur had closed off from him, from just about everyone, had put himself in the position to be the dogsbody of camp and took every tiny job that got him the hell out of there. The hunting trips were obsolete, and Charles wasn’t about to push for them to be back on again.

Dutch had been angry of course. They’d lost money, but more than that, Dutch knew that they’d been slacking off. In the time that Charles had been following him, he’d seen a few of Dutch’s outbursts. Usually his temper burned hot and bright before disappearing completely. This time he carried with him a sort of frustration that Charles had rarely seen before. Charles wasn’t privy to what had happened in the tent between the two men, but it seemed that Dutch’s reaction was new to Arthur as well. Newer still was the feeling of failing, not only Dutch, but the camp. John was the foolish son, after all. Arthur slacking off and avoiding his responsibilities was something unheard of.

It quickly became apparent to him what Dutch saw as the root cause.

Charles didn’t know if it was paranoia that made him feel as though Dutch’s eyes were on him at every turn, but it meant that he was wary about approaching Arthur for anything more than their usual chat over coffee. Not that it mattered; Arthur was rarely present for that most days and the days that he was, he made an active attempt to avoid Charles past acknowledging his presence with a nod.

He tried not to feel too hurt by it and diverted his efforts into finding jobs and helping around the camp. He’d heard whispers and knew that there were several big jobs in place, people trying to prove themselves and get a good haul now that they'd hit the ground. He had no interest in getting involved in the bank heist that Karen and Bill were whispering about, not unless he was invited. It was foolish to even think about attacking the bank that they were so close too. Until they got away, it was all talk, and Dutch seemed content with them hanging around Valentine until the heat died down.

Mostly he was delegated to do the heavy lifting around camp; repairing the wagons, hauling lumber and making the trips into town for supplies. In truth the only things that had changed was that Dutch watched him with a keener eye, Arthur avoided him and Kieran... Well, he wasn’t tied to a tree. Charles usually spent a lot of his time around the Scout fire, between watches and taking care of the horses, and he hadn’t been used to company there until Kieran seemed to make his stake there. The ex-O’Driscoll reminded Charles of an old street dog; battered and bruised enough to expect a kick but too starved and toothless to deal any damage back.

Over the weeks, Kieran had slowly stopped looking at Charles like he was readying himself for a slap and had started to greet him, sometimes making nervous attempts at conversation, mostly about the horses. Hell, he had even given Charles a new ointment for Taima to try. As per their usual routine, Kieran hovered whenever he started to saddle Taima up for a trip into town, or assisted him whenever he was attaching the big Belgians or Shires to the cart.

“She’s a real calm one, ain’t she?” Kieran said as he watched, looking more thoughtful and perhaps a little jealous as Taima allowed him to saddle her up, still and content. He spared a glance at him, watching as he moved to hide his head behind Branwen’s neck, clearly worried about overstepping.

“She’s a strong one,” he said after a moment, hesitating for just a second before throwing caution to the winds. Dutch was already pissed at him, and reaching out a hand to the boy wouldn't help that, but he couldn't help but feel sorry for him. “I’m heading into town for a supply run. Probably gonna head to the stables, see if they’ve got another workhorse in, now that we’ve got the other cart sorted. Can tag along, fi you want,” he offered. Kieran’s excitement was palpable for a moment, before he visibly deflated, eyes flitting from the camp to the opening in the trees that led out, “Hosea said it was fine for you to leave camp so long as someone is with you.”

“Like a prisoner,” Kieran mumbled, bitterness intruding into his tone for the first time since Charles had met him. He didn't prod or disagree with him, allowing Kieran time to get out whatever it was he wanted to say. "There's O'Driscoll's in town. I heard some of the girls talkin' about 'em. If they recognized me it- well. It'd be bad," he said. Charles tried not to roll his eyes. He wasn't a man to belittle a threat, especially when they had so many to look out for, but he couldn't imagine that finding the stable boy was high on Colm O'Driscoll's list right now.

"I'm sure we can deal with one or two O'Driscolls," he said, trying not to let his impatience show too obviously. He'd only offered out of pity for the boy, and now he was beginning to regret it. "I won't leave you out there alone to deal with them, if that's what you're worried about," he said baldly. Kieran balked, giving Charles all he needed to know about what the other man's true fears were. Not that he blamed the boy even for a minute. They'd chased him through the mountains, held him prisoner and threatened to cut off his balls. If he trusted them outright, Charles would probably judge him. "Ready to go?"

It didn’t take long - only several feet out of camp - for Charles to begin to regret his act of kindness. It wasn’t like riding with Sean or Trelawney; their incessant chatter was usually boisterous gloating or thinly veiled innuendo. Kierans chatter wasn’t dissimilar to the way that he had heard Jack talk when the boy got his hands on some candy. It was a nervous rambling that seemed ceaseless to the point that Charles began to wonder if he had drawn breath at all.

If Kieran was perturbed by Charles’ silence, he didn’t show it. Despite the nervousness in his voice, he seemed happier and a lot more comfortable on horseback. Gone was the hunched posture that he usually carried with him. He sat a little straighter and held his head higher. Though in fairness he wasn’t sure if that was due to being on horseback or because he was away from Horseshoe Overlook and the constant shadow of distrust that followed him through camp.

“So, what exactly did you need to go into town for?” Kieran said once he had mostly run out of steam and noticed that Charles had been drowning him out for most of the ride.

“Some supplies,” he said simply, sighing a little when the other man continued to look at him expectantly. “Just the essential. Cigarettes, Moonshine. Ms Grimshaw asked me to pick up some canvasm” he explained. The girl’s tent had started to leak the night before during the rain. Say what you wanted about Grimshaw, she was on top of things.

They rode on in relative quiet for a few moments, but Charles could feel the tension pouring off the boy. “You have a tough time not talking, don’t you?” he wondered aloud, watching as Kieran flinched out of the corner of his eye. He readied himself to apologize before the boy beat him to it.

“I’m sorry. I ain’t this much of a chatterer normally, s’just… I ain’t had no one to talk to ‘cept the horses in a long time. Well, ‘cept for Bill but he usually just yells himself hoarse at me, and I don’t get a word in edgeways,” Kieran murmured, rubbing the arch of Branwen’s neck. “Just feels nice to be able to speak you know? Felt like I was gonna forget how to do it.”

“Understandable,” Charles said slowly. He could sympathize; he’d gone months at a time without saying another word to another human until he’d joined up with the gang. He’d never seen a reason to fill a silence with inane chatter, rather choosing to focus on using the words that were required, but the slow, suffocating silence that came from being totally alone had begun to even eat at him in the weeks before Dutch found him. As much as the talking in camp irritated him sometimes, there was a comfort in knowing that he had people around, and knowing that if he did feel the urge to talk or laugh or joke, there’d always be someone that he could do that with. The go to had been Arthur, for obvious reasons, but even with the other man giving him a wide berth, he had Karen and their midday coffee talks (or rather, her morning coffee talk), Javier who was always happy to accommodate anyone. Hell, he’d even managed to talk with John a little more now the other man was on the mend and getting stir crazier by the day.

He cleared his throat, a little uncomfortable, but determined to help. Even if prompting conversation was so far out of his comfort zone that he floundered slightly. “You were uh… Saying about taking care of the Shires,” he ventured, not attempting to hide his own small smile as Kieran beamed and began talking again about the best way to acclimate new horses into the herd.

The trip to Valentine was mostly uneventful after that - aside for the shopkeeper asking him to not cause any trouble - and they managed to get all of the supplies they needed onto Taima and Branwen, talking as they loaded everything. It gave Charles a better insight into how the O’Driscoll’s operated and he was mostly disgusted.

“Wait, he left ten men to die in a burning train cart?” Charles repeated back to Kieran, watching the grave expression on his face. He’d heard tell that Colm preferred quantity over quality and he had a reputation for building numbers over building unity, but he hadn’t expected the other gang leader to have such a disregard for human life.

“Didn’t just leave ‘em, used ‘em as an example. Said that if we weren’t better, quicker, didn’t do exactly as he said, that we’d end up just the same or worse,” Kieran said with a shiver, glancing around as if he expected O’Driscoll’s to burst out of the saloon and set him alight as well. “He didn’t mention that those guys did do as he said. He was just wrong. Thing about Colm is, he thinks he’s untouchable. He’s got all his boys as his Generals, and that’s all he cares about. That and money. Don’t matter how he gets it, so long as he’s got it..”

“I’ve known men like that before, but not on that sort of scale. How does he keep anyone loyal?” Charles said with a low whistle as they led the horses to the stables. He’d been keeping a lazy eye out for any flashes of green, the colors that the O’Driscoll’s tended to wear with pride, but now he sharpened his eye. There was a voice in the back of his mind berating him for being so cocky. Maybe Kieran did have something to worry about after all. From what he said, Colm would likely hold a grudge against anyone.

“How does anyone keep anyone loyal? Money,” Kieran said with a shrug, though his expression turned thoughtful, “Guess that ain’t the case with Dutch; whole gangs as poor as can be right now,” he added and Charles let out a small chuckle at that, the tension between his shoulders easing just a little. It was true, they’d fallen on hard times, and that didn’t appear to be changing anytime soon.

“Maybe we can sell that horse ointment you make. Make us all a million,” he said, deadpan as Kieran stopped in his tracks.

“Was that… Was that a joke?” he asked, incredulous before he burst out into giddy laughter and ran to catch up, all long limbs and flailing arms. It was oddly endearing. Charles simply stared at him, lip twitching just a touch, “Hey, joke all you want, seems like the best plan right now. Well, the one that causes the least amount of bloodshed, anyhow,” he added as they moved through the stables. Charles stopped in front of a large shire, stroking his hand down the stallions nose.

“Things will pick up. Who knows? Maybe you’ll even have a chance to get in on a job or two,” he murmured, keeping his voice down now that they were amongst others. Kieran’s answering snort was enough of an answer. “People might not trust you now, but that doesn’t mean they never will. Give it time. Patience…” Charles trailed off as the sound of yelling echoed through the barn, lifting his head with a frown. “The hell..?”

The source of the rukus announced itself sharpish when the barn doors opened and Charles was given a full view of the gallows. A wailing woman was being held back as the deputy read out a sentencing for the two men strung up on the gallows and waiting to drop. Morbid curiosity kept him watching and kept Kieran silent behind him, both of them enraptured as one of the men - no, boys. They were boys - sobbed and pleaded. He felt Kieran flinch beside him.

“Please! It weren’t our fault!” the younger boy begged while the other struggled, not to get away but to get to the other boy. They were bruised and bloodied, but the similarities were obvious. Brothers, most likely. He’d heard gossip from around the town about two boys killing their father. The two waiting to hand were barely more than children; not what he had expected. The girl continued to wail, clawing at those holding her back as she tried to fight up to the gallows. She had the same hair, and matching bruises.

The Sheriff looked away as he ordered the gallows to drop and two cracks reached Charles’ ear before the shrill scream did. His eyes left the hanging boys to find the girl in the crowd, expecting to see her on the floor or over someone’s shoulder. He didn’t expect the flash of silver that came from her pulling a knife from one of the men holding her back. Charles lurched but he was too far away to stop anything as she slashed at anyone around her, a Fury whirling in the mud, blood streaked and grief mad.

A hand on his arm stopped him from making more progress, and he stilled, enraptured as he was by the demon that had suddenly reared from unjust death. Kieran tugged at him and pointed, a wordless horror spreading over his face. As they watched, the girls screams were cut off with a gurgle, a bullet tearing its way through the flesh of her throat. The knife dropped and so did she, blood pooling in the mud.

The two men were rooted in place. They were no strangers to senseless violence or to murder, but to have it unfold so suddenly, from something so unassuming had Charles frozen for a moment longer than he wanted. “Nothing more to see here, people,” Malloy’s voice rose unnecessarily over the hush that had fallen on the crowd. No one needed to be told twice as they backed away from the bodies, glancing away. The gurgles stopped and the bodies swayed in the wind.

“We should go back,” Charles said quietly, reaching across to grip Kieran’s arm. The boy was stock still, mouth agape as he stared at the hanging boys and the dead girl. Charles tried to reign in his frustration, but dug his fingers a little tighter into the skinny arm under his grip. Kieran let out a small whimper of pain and met his eyes, “Sights like this bring out the worst in people. Tends to draw in crowds. Do you really want to be here when the O’Driscoll’s start to circle like vultures?” he said sharply, refusing to let Kieran pull away. Eventually, it seemed to sink in.

The ride back to Horseshoe Overlook was tense, and if Charles had hoped it would ease once they were in camp, he was out of luck. Abigail was fussing over Jack when they arrived, reprimanding him about wandering too far, despite him still being within the boundaries of camp. Her eyes caught on Charles as she stood, holding onto the boys hand, “Might wanna have a talk with Arthur,” she said, her forced nonchalance ruined by the warning in her eyes that only an adult could see.

“You mind takin’ care of Taima for a minute?” he asked Kieran as they dismounted. The other man was still quiet but he nodded, eyes brightening a little as he patted the Appaloosa. It didn’t take long for Charles to seek Arthur out, finding him at the edge of camp where they’d met so often. “Abigail said there’d been trouble,” not in so many words, but he could read through the lines of what she had meant without needing to scare Jack.

“Pinkertons,” Arthur grunted, still not meeting his eyes as he focused on cleaning the rifle in his hands. The Springfield was already gleaming, not requiring the attention that its handler was giving it. Charles waited patiently for the rest; he could out wait Arthur any day if he wanted to. “Found me when I was takin’ Jack out fishin’. Dutch thinks it’s nothing worry about just yet,” he said. It sounded like it was something he’d said over and over again over the last few hours.

“And.. What d’you think?” Charles asked, frowning when Arthur’’s eyes finally snapped to his and he realized his misstep a little too late.

“Ain’t my place to question it,” Arthur growled, rising to his feet and already stalking off, “We stay put and we lie low. Do what we gotta,” he threw back over his shoulder before ducking into his tent, leaving Charles alone. He didn’t know what was more unsettling; the question of whether he’d ever get back the easy camaraderie that he and Arthur had developed, or the slow creeping worry that they'd never be safe.

 

***

  
"Hey Charles, got a minute?" John's voice was easily distinguishable from anyone else Charles had ever met, but for the first time in weeks there was no edge to it. There was no hint of the pain or frustration that had dogged him since he had woken up back at Colter, and Charles supposed there was only one thing that could've caused that. John was clearly trying to keep it inside, but Charles could see the other mans excitement easily enough in the way he walked a little taller, a swagger back in his step.

"Suppose so," he said easily, glancing up at John from where he'd been nursing a cup of coffee at the Scout fire. The scars on John's face were still red and sore looking, but they had begun to scab and heal. His eye didn't seem totally healed, and as he looked Charles couldn't help but note the blood in the whites. There was no way it wasn't affecting his vision, but then again, he'd seen John shoot a man square in the forehead when he was stumbling drunk and seeing double. "The train?" John let out a bark of laughter.

"Nothin' gets past you, does it?" John wheezed, shaking his head as he slung his Lancaster over his shoulder and gestured at the horses, "Eh, subtlety ain't exactly my strong point. Whole thing's set up and ready to go. Just need another man in the gunners seat. Arthur threw your name into the mix," he carried on, seemingly oblivious to Charles surprise. "You In?"

"I'm in," Charles said, still a little in shock as he followed John to the horses, forcing himself to listen to the plan. it really was smart, and meant there'd be minimal blood shed, and hopefully, minimal law on their back. He supposed that was why Arthur was reluctantly dragging him along. The last thing they needed was a powder keg throwing some dynamite in to the mix when Pinkertons were already sniffing around camp.

John seemed as surprised as he was when they rolled up to where Arthur had hidden the oil cart and found Sean already blabbering. Arthur's resignation to the situation seemed to hint that Sean had been talking for a lot longer before they'd shown up. Not for the first time, Charles had to wonder who could talk for longer; Sean or Trelawney. He reckoned that both of them would give the other a good run for their money, and while he truly was curious to know the answer, he doesn’t want to be a part of the experiment. He’d probably kill the pair of them before they could decide a winner.

Usually, when Sean’s chattering would start, he didn't have to work to catch Arthur’s eye, but even with the two of them working a job, the cowboy was steadfastly avoiding eye contact, and refusing to look away from Sean and John, except to gesture at him as he backed away. There was more venom in his voice then usual when he snapped at Sean from the side of the cart, and a part of Charles was furious at himself for it. When Arthur had turned his back on him, that should have been the end of it but Charles couldn't help but feel the loss a lot deeper than he should have.

It was hard to accept that he had come to rely on Arthur, not for jobs but for companionship. For the little spark of something more he had felt building over the weeks after Blackwater and that he'd foolishly let himself hope. He had entertained the idea of him and Arthur as something closer than friends, entertained it past an image to get himself off when he had a spare moment. Charles had let himself imagine that there'd be more times like in the forest when Arthur's arm had weighed on him - so close to holding, hugging - more times when he'd be able to take Arthur's work roughened hands in his own for comfort. More touches, kisses, more... He'd been a fool to hope and the world had lashed back at him for it.

If he had hoped that the job would allow him to shift his focus from Arthur, he had been even more of an idiot than usual. The adrenaline quickened his blood and heightened his senses, and seeing Arthur standing spread legged and looming in the light of the train had only made his blood pump harder. Once the train stopped he pounced, growling at the engineer as he cracked the butt on his gun over his head. He worked quickly, his eyes immediately finding Arthur in the dark as he dismounted from the oil cart.

For the first time in weeks their eyes met and Arthur didn't flinch away, his gaze burning back into Charles' for a second. For a wild moment Charles felt the almost overwhelming urge to lurch forwards, to push Arthur against the train and kiss him senseless, to press himself against the other man and to feel his need mirrored back in more than just a look. Frustration rose in him like a wave. They should have spoken when they had their chance up in the forest, away from this hell and in their own little world. He didn't want things between them to be a reaction, forgotten once the blood lust died down. Didn't want what they had to be all about the same violence that infiltrated the rest of their lives.

The moment broke when John kicked the first car door open, their gaze tearing from one another as they refocused on the task ahead.

The haul was decent, but like so many of their jobs, it turned south fast and their hopes for a bloodless escape went out of the window faster than their bullets. They found a small clearing to divide the money up, and he caught his own share when Arthur threw it at him but didn't try for anything further. He nodded when Arthur ordered that they split up, and with his ears still ringing with shots and heart heavy with loss, he was glad to be away. Even if he could feel eyes boring into the back of his head as he rode over the hills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, you guys are the literal best <3 All of your comments have made a really shitty few weeks a whole lot better <3
> 
> I'm glad you've all been enjoying this and hope this one wasn't too much of a disappointment!


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